I leaned on the wall of Spotter’s Rampart. Behind me lay the city, shrouded in darkness. In front of me most of the harbor was dark, too, except for this stretch of the Combs. Large barrels dotted the wharf and the Yolentas’ pier, blazing with orange flames. Each barrel came with a polished metal circle affixed to the rim. It jutted straight up, like a wheel on a cart, reflecting the light from the fires and illuminating a chunk of the pier like a streetlamp.

A huge ship floated at the end of the pier, its carved hull wide, almost bloated compared to the graceful, leaner waverunner moored at the next dock. The waverunners were built for speed, while the Yolentas’ trade vessels were meant to carry as much cargo as safely possible.

At the end of the pier, a small harbor crane swung back and forth. On board the ship, dim shapes loaded barrels onto the crane platform. Once full, the crane swung to the pier, and a couple of burly workers heaved the barrels onto handcarts.

A line of dockworkers moved along the pier, carting barrels to the warehouse and returning to the ship with the empty carts, like worker ants marching from the anthill to a picnic and back again. One of these workers was Will, but from this distance I couldn’t tell where he was. They were all large men, pushing identical handcarts, and the orange glow reduced them to dark silhouettes.

Next to me, Shana peered at the line of dockworkers. We waited side by side, wrapped in our cloaks.

A gust of wind swirled around me, flinging cold marine air in my face. I shivered.

“I need to make you a shawl,” Shana murmured.

“It’s almost summer.”

“Yes, and if I start now, it will be done by the fall.”

“We’ll have to live that long.”

“That’s your job. Keep us breathing.”

The human conveyor belt below kept moving. The person behind this scheme was very careful. The first and last batches of barrels, twenty-five each, would contain only pink salt. We needed to target the barrels in the middle batch, roughly a hundred of them, marked with a small triangle burned into the lid. The burn mark was so small, only someone looking for it would notice it. There wasn’t a lot of light on that pier. The easiest way to find it was by feel.

Nothing would happen until Will put one of those barrels into his cart.

I pulled Everard’s den out of my sleeve pocket, rubbed it between my fingers for luck, and put it back. Please let it go well . . .

“It will be fine,” Shana murmured next to me. “My boys have done far worse. The stories I could tell.”

“I’m worried about the kids.”

“Clover and Kaiden can handle themselves. They know their parts. They’ve practiced.”

Reynald was a big believer in “practice makes better.” Kaiden had spent the last two days sprinting through our courtyard and chucking various objects into empty baskets and barrels, while Reynald and Gort took turns supervising. Those two would have made excellent high school football coaches. Gort especially.

I had spent the last two days stressing out and making a large batch of soap. Yesterday we had strapped a tray to Lute and sent him, some sample bars, and his winning smile toward the market. He came back in half an hour without the soap but a noma and a half richer. I didn’t dare to sell more until we registered our shop, but it was a good sign, and Clover stopped sweating bullets over our production costs.

The kids were down on the wharf, waiting. Reynald was down there somewhere, too, hiding in the alley to our right, ready to step in if things went badly. Gort was farther east, waiting in one of the plazas with Honey and a leased horse cart. If everything went well in the next few minutes, we’d be loading one of the marked barrels into it.

I needed things to go well. So much was riding on it. I needed a win in the worst way. If this went to plan, I would have Reynald’s confidence, and eighty people wouldn’t have to die.

A dockworker passed by the farthest barrel, right by the ship’s gangplank, and stumbled.

“That’s my boy,” Shana murmured.

The signal. Will had found a mark on his barrel.

I picked up the lantern resting by my feet. Shana grabbed a long pole, and we hung the lantern on its end. We waited. We had to time it just right.

Below Will disappeared into the warehouse.

Breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe . . .

Will emerged from the warehouse with an empty cart and pushed it back to the ship, keeping his place in line.

“There he is,” Shana whispered.

We watched him as he reached the trade vessel. The two powerlifters deposited another marked barrel into his cart. Will made a careful U-turn and headed back to the warehouse.

Three . . .

Will reached the second fire barrel. Thirty yards to the warehouse.

Two . . .

We had to time it just right, so he would be between the barrels, in the dark.

One. Now!

I raised the lantern pole and bobbed it up and down.

A loud scream came from the right, a woman yelling at the top of her lungs. “Stop! Stop! Thief!”

A beggar boy in rags sprinted along the wharf toward the line of dockworkers, cradling a large clay jug to his chest. Clover chased him, screaming, a stick in her hand.

“Thief! Help!”

The dockworkers, overwhelmingly male and young, saw a pretty girl yelling for help and did exactly what Reynald expected them to do. They stopped and moved to the right, trying to block the thief from escaping. Will let go of his cart and stepped in front of it, almost as if he were protecting the cargo.

A lone dockworker pushing a cart covered by a tarp came out of the street to our left. Lute with his replacement barrel.

Kaiden saw a wall of bodies closing together in front of him, whirled toward Clover, saw her stick, spun back around, and hurled the jug he was carrying into the nearest fire barrel.

Flames exploded, sending chunks of burning logs all over the wharf.

The dockworkers shielded their eyes against the flash.

Kaiden darted past them into the alley to the right.

Lute pulled up next to Will’s cart, picked up the tarp, tossed it over Will’s barrel, grabbed Will’s cart, and smoothly wheeled it away back the way he came.

Clover shrieked in outrage and alarm. “That’s a noma’s worth of gorefish oil, you little shit!”

The burning logs sputtered on the wharf. There were few things more alarming than a fire at the harbor. The sailors on the Yolenta ship collectively lost their shit. Someone roared, “Don’t just stand there, you assholes! Put that fucking fire out!”

The crowd by the pier fractured. Half of the workers ran for the water barrels to put out the fire, three went to check on Clover, and a few who still had cargo in their carts wheeled them into the warehouse. Will was one of them.

One of the warehouse workers sprinted after Kaiden into the alley and stumbled back out, hands up. If I had run into Reynald on a dark street, I would have done exactly the same.

Nobody noticed Lute and his cart.

We’d pulled it off.

I let out a breath and slumped onto the stone rail.

“I’m going to make my rudberry sambocade,” Shana said. “I think they deserve it, don’t you?”

“. . . and like I told you, fire always works,” Gort pontificated. “You could steal the whole pier if you had a big enough fire.”

I sat at the head of the table and tried not to fidget.

The entire day was a blur. We got home and went to bed. Except I couldn’t sleep. I kept turning over and over until I finally gave up. Nothing could happen until Will returned, safe and sound, from the wharf. All I could do was wait.

Just after lunch I sent Kaiden, in his clean clothes and with his hair brushed, to check on Will, and he came back and reported that everything seemed to be normal. The barrel swap had gone unnoticed.

It was almost dinnertime now. Will would be back any minute. One by one, everybody trickled into the kitchen, until all of us were packed in there, eyeing the stolen barrel sitting on a tarp on the floor.

Come on. How long . . .

As if on cue, Reynald loomed in the doorway and stepped into the kitchen. Behind him Will staggered in and tossed some coins on the table.

“What took you so long?” Lute demanded.

“I had to settle up,” Will growled. “I told them I’d had enough excitement and dawn-to-dusk days. Honest work takes a lot out of a person. You should try it.”

Lute looked at the coins. “Doesn’t pay that much though, does it? I’ll stick with soldiering, thanks.”

“Oh, when do you plan to start?” Will dropped into a chair and turned to Gort. “Next time, it’s his turn.”

I looked at Gort, too. “We’ll need something to bust the barrel open.”

Gort stood up. “I have just the thing.”

Shana slid a big plate of food and a tankard of ale in front of Will and put a platter of triangular pastries on the table, perfectly golden brown and smelling of delicious fruit and freshly baked bread. Clover distributed cups and tea.

“Don’t we get ale?” Lute asked.

Shana stopped and looked at him.

Lute raised his hands. “Fine, fine.”

Gort returned to the kitchen carrying a large war maul. It looked like an oversized hammer.

“Now?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

Gort leaned the maul against the wall next to the barrel and sat down. Everyone was here, finally.

I was so nervous, my hands trembled. This was it. Either I was Maggie the Undying who could predict the future, or I was a delusional woman who had no idea what she was doing. Everything was riding on this, and I’d run across enough inconsistencies to realize that nothing the books talked about was guaranteed. I could’ve hedged my bets and opened the barrel privately, but I needed the full power of that reveal. I needed to shock them. Go big or go home.

If only.

I took a deep breath. “I asked you to do all of this and didn’t explain why. You trusted me. I appreciate that trust more than I can express.”

Reynald’s face was like a stone wall. No emotion at all. I had a vision of the empty barrel and him getting up from the table and walking away.

“Reynald told you that I know other people’s secrets. I do. I also know some of the future.”

Will raised his eyebrows. Lute gave me a skeptical look. Shana glanced at Gort. Her face said What did you get me into?

So far this was going awesome.

“So is that like visions?” Will asked.

“Not exactly. I know a version of the future. In that version Hreban rises to power and the kingdom burns. I’m trying to stop it. If anyone finds out about me, I will be in danger. This knowledge is valuable, and someone like Sauven, Everard, or Hreban would kill to possess it.”

The skepticism was so thick, you could cut it with a knife.

I took a swallow of my tea for courage. “Gort, you are not supposed to be here.”

He glanced at me. “Where am I supposed to be?”

“Getting ready to march on Falcon Point.”

Gort’s mouth dropped. He caught himself, but it was too late. I had finally managed to shock Gort Magnar.

Shana pivoted to her husband. “Falcon Point?”

Her voice was soft and mild. Across the table, the two brothers went perfectly still.

Gort reached out and patted Shana’s fingers with his huge hand. “A small fort in the north Middle Fields. Quick job, easy money.”

Shana turned to her sons. “Did you know about this?”

They shook their heads.

“I didn’t tell them,” Gort said gently. “I didn’t tell anyone. I hadn’t even signed yet. We were just talking.”

Shana took a long, slow breath. “Who is the recruiter?”

“Filderon,” Gort said. “You remember him. We worked with him before.”

“You promised me that you were done.”

Gort cleared his throat. “We needed the coin.”

Shana didn’t say anything.

“It was going to be the last one,” Gort said.

“That’s what you said the last time. And the time before that.”

“This time, it would be,” I said.

The table went quiet.

Shana met my eyes, and suddenly I had the urge to back up with my hands in the air.

“What will happen at Falcon Point?” she asked.

I drank a bit more of my tea. My throat had gone dry. “Filderon is recruiting people for a short campaign to settle a land dispute between two nobles. He is offering generous rates with a third of the money up front on signing.”

“Strange,” Will said. “Last time getting money out of him was like pulling teeth.”

“What’s with this sudden generosity?” Lute said.

“It was last-minute, and the client who hired him was desperate,” Gort said.

“Filderon is lying,” I told them. “The client who hired him doesn’t want any of this to come back to them, which is why Filderon is requiring everyone to bring their own gear. The company can’t look like an organized fighting force. They must resemble bandits.”

The more I talked, the scarier Shana looked.

“The company will leave for Falcon Point in two days. Gort will suspect that something is off when Filderon refuses to fly any banners. By that point it will be too late. On paper, Falcon Point is owned by a minor noble. In reality, that minor noble is Dreantia Yolenta.”

Gort stopped patting his wife’s hand. Lute swallowed. Will’s face turned grim.

Dreantia was the head of the Yolenta Family. It was her barrel sitting on the tarp.

Attacking a fort owned by the head of a Great Family was writing your own death warrant. Especially attacking a fort that belonged to the Keepers of Iron. Their cavalry was the heaviest in Rellas. Their crest bore a hammer, both the symbol of their craft and a promise of their retribution.

“What happens next?” Shana asked, her voice flat.

“A day into the march, Filderon will send a scout to warn Falcon Point’s defenders that bandits are about to attack. The garrison will ask Dreantia for reinforcements. She will pull a company of knights from Kryss Britin, a town half a day’s ride from Falcon Point.”

The Magnars listened, food forgotten. To my right, Reynald’s expression had grown dark. A mercenary company, no matter how well trained and supplied, was no match for the Yolentas’ knights. Even if Dreantia didn’t dispatch her best, even if she sent her second, third, or fourth best, they would mow through the mercenaries like wild horses trampling a field of weeds.

“Filderon will throw the company against Falcon Point and clear off during the charge. Dreantia’s knights will arrive, crushing the mercenaries between themselves and the fort. Most of the company will die in the battle. Gort will survive, but he will be captured with a few others, convicted of banditry, and executed.”

Clover sucked in a sharp breath.

“His body will be thrown into a mass grave at the foot of the fort. I’m so sorry.”

The kitchen went as silent as a tomb.

“Well,” Shana said slowly. “We can’t have that.”

The brothers jumped to their feet at the same time.

“Sit down!” she snapped.

They sat.

“Why?” Shana asked me.

Now that was an excellent question.

I drank more tea. “Kryss Britin is a trade hub for Yolenta goods going north. The goods come off the ships and caravans, are given a quick inspection, and then are shipped to Kryss Britin, where they are inspected again and sent to their final destinations. That is where this barrel was headed.”

I nodded to Gort. “Time for your maul to shine.”

He looked at Will. “Do you want to do the honors? You’ve earned it.”

My hands shook. I hid them under the table.

Will got up, walked over to the barrel, grabbed the maul, and swung. The big war hammer smashed into the wood, right in the middle. The barrel creaked but held.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Hit it, don’t tap it,” Lute said. “It’s not an ale keg.”

Will made a face and swung again. Wood cracked like a gun shot. The barrel burst, spilling salt on the tarp amid shards and splinters. In the middle of the salt heap, five smooth gray ingots reflected the light.

Relief washed over me, so overwhelming I almost passed out. I was right. I was right, I was right, I was right. I hadn’t screwed up. I would do a victory dance, except if I tried to stand right now, I’d probably fall over.

Reynald rose and picked up an ingot. He hefted it in his hand, examined it, and placed it on the table. “Gray iron.”

There were many kinds of iron in Rellas. Hard iron was for tools because it was strong and durable. White iron was for the mages because it was soft and pliant and took enchantment well. Blue iron was for armor because it was light, resilient, and didn’t rust. Gray iron was for weapons. It was tough and flexible, and it held a sharp edge the longest.

Everyone stared at the ingot. Gort picked up a smooth brick and let it fall on the table with a heavy thud.

Reynald turned to me. The expression on his face was indescribable. There was admiration in his eyes, surprise, and something more I couldn’t quite place. He was looking at me like I was a magician who’d made an elephant disappear in the middle of a crowded street. I would remember that look in his eyes for the rest of my life.

I allowed myself a small knowing smile. That’s right, Sir Reynald. Drink it in.

“I don’t understand,” Gort said. “The Yolentas own the iron mines. Why are they smuggling ingots in barrels of salt?”

“Dreantia Yolenta has an older brother,” I said. “Normally the oldest sibling heads the family, but Diodor doesn’t care about wealth or profit. He cares only about working with metal. I’m not even sure he understands the full value of money, but Dreantia does.”

“He makes the blades, and she makes the coin,” Shana said.

“Yes.” I nodded. “Diodor’s daughter, Indora, is ambitious and impatient. Dreantia has her on a short leash, and Indora wants her father to take over the family, so she can run it instead of her aunt. But she lacks support, so she needs to borrow someone else’s hands to shove Dreantia aside.”

“What about the iron?” Clover asked.

“I’m getting to that. There is a reason why the Yolentas are the Keepers of the Iron, but not the Lords of it. All iron in Rellas belongs to the Throne. The Yolentas are allowed to work the mines, but the king determines how much of the ore they keep, how much they sell, and to whom. Especially when it comes to gray iron.”

To Rellas, gray iron had the same strategic value that plutonium did in our world. Sauven wanted to know exactly what happened to it.

“Dreantia is skimming off the top,” I said.

They looked at me with blank expressions.

“She underreports the mine yields and secretly sells the excess outside of the kingdom. She is choosy about the price, not the buyers.”

“That’s treason,” Reynald said. “Sauven will rip her heart out.”

“Dreantia knows that. She’s been bribing the right people for years. Even counting all those bribes, she makes a nice profit, and all of it goes directly into her secret vault.”

I drank the last of my tea. This would be a longish explanation.

“Indora discovered that her aunt was embezzling and sensed an opportunity. If this theft is exposed, Sauven will lose his shit and Dreantia will lose her life. Indora’s father would be the natural successor. Reporting the theft would do no good. Dreantia pays her bribes on time, so if Indora tried to turn her in, nothing would happen and Dreantia would be informed. Indora must draw attention to the embezzlement without leaving herself vulnerable.”

“There is a nice little rebellion brewing on the border with the Selva Dukedom,” Reynald said, his eyes iced over. “And the rebels require iron for weapons and armor. When the word of them arming themselves reaches Sauven, he will send the royal inspectors to the nearest iron producer, the Yolentas. They are the most obvious suspects. Bribing the inspectors won’t work. They fear Sauven much more than they love money. They will open Dreantia’s books, discover the theft, and her life will be forfeit.”

He had put it all together.

“Exactly,” I said. “The iron for the rebels has to come from somewhere. Indora can’t steal it from the Yolentas’ mines—they are watched too closely by her aunt’s people. Nor can she buy it abroad, because Dreantia pays attention to her spending.”

“Hreban.” Reynald spat the word like it was poison.

“Yes. Hreban is quietly training a private army. He will need weapons and armor. He and Indora struck a deal. He supplies her with iron he buys elsewhere, and she smuggles it in with pink salt and distributes it to the rebels. In return, when she takes over the family, she will funnel weapons and armor to his troops.”

The partnership between the monarchs of Rellas and the Keepers of Iron was centuries old. As a ruler, you would want your most trusted ally to run the mines. When dynasties changed, so did the identity of the Keepers, although the Yolentas had kept the iron the longest. They had the gift of Copper Glean. Their magic allowed them to find mineral wealth beneath their feet and granted them enhanced understanding of metallurgy.

When the Savarics took the throne centuries ago, the Yolentas were their greatest allies. But time and greed had eroded that bond. Indora Yolenta had no qualms about throwing her lot in with Ulmar Hreban.

“But why Falcon Point?” Will asked. “How does it connect?”

“Dreantia isn’t stupid. She also wants to know where the rebel iron is coming from, and she suspects that there is a traitor in the family. Last month Dreantia replaced the head commander of the knights guarding Kryss Britin with Sir Drogen, her loyal dog. Indora paid off the inspectors, but with Drogen looking over their shoulder, her barrels won’t pass. She needs the knights to disappear for the day so she can push her salt caravan through.”

“It’s a distraction,” Lute said. “But why would the knights drop everything and ride to rescue a small fort?”

“That’s the best part.” I smiled at him. “Falcon Point is where Dreantia hides her stolen gold. She will do anything to protect it.”

“That is clever,” Clover murmured.

I faced the Magnars. “Filderon is due to ship out in two days. If we do nothing, all of those mercenaries will die a pointless death. If we do something, we will draw attention to ourselves.”

And hit the timeline with a hammer the size of Gort’s maul.

Silence claimed the table.

“The company can’t ship out without the broker,” Will said. “Filderon is the linchpin.”

“Take him out and it all falls down,” Lute said.

“How is our friend Filderon?” Shana said. “I haven’t seen him in ages. We should have dinner.”

“If the four of you take action against Filderon and it’s discovered, you will never work as mercenaries again,” I warned. “You know what happens to mercenaries who kill a broker.”

“We will be blacklisted,” Will said. He didn’t sound the least bit upset about it.

“Oh no,” Lute said, his voice bland. “Whatever shall we do?”

Gort faced me. “What happens to Filderon after Falcon Point?”

“He gets his payout and buys an estate near Praul Britin. He grows grapes and makes wine.”

“Is it any good?” Gort asked.

“He thinks so. Calls it Falcon’s Tears.”

Gort looked at Reynald.

“Don’t be seen,” the blademaster said.

Gort smiled.

The two Magnar brothers grinned at me in unison. Next to Gort, Shana bared her teeth. They looked like a family of werewolves about to sprout fangs and claws. If their eyes started glowing, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

Gort rose. “I’ll go set up a meet. We’ll want to discuss this job somewhere quiet.”

“What if he rejects that invite?” I asked.

“Oh, he’ll see us.” Gort’s eyes turned cold and angry. “When he was trying to lure me in, he kept mentioning the boys, and I couldn’t understand why. It’s an old-dog job.”

“He didn’t want two grown men coming around asking how their father died,” Reynald said.

And if Gort and both his sons died at Falcon Point, the only one asking questions would be Shana, and Filderon must’ve decided he could handle her. That fucking slime.

“Go get him, love,” Shana said.

Gort motioned to Lute. “Think you can play the part?”

“I have this.” Lute nodded. “I’ll tell him all about how times are tough, and my brother is breaking his back at the docks.”

The two of them left the kitchen.

“Well, it’s about time for dinner.” Shana nodded to Kaiden. “Come with me. I’ll need things from the cellar.”

“I’m going to wash the wharf off.” Will headed into the hallway.

In a moment it was just Reynald, Clover, and me.

“I’ll see Gort and Lute out,” Clover said. She got up and turned to me. “You were amazing, my lady.”

Aw.

Clover left the kitchen.

Reynald stood up. I looked at him.

“Regrets?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Filderon is a man who sacrifices other people to put coin in his pocket. He deserves everything that’s coming to him.”

Reynald leaned slightly toward me. A little light played in his green eyes. He was strikingly handsome right now for some reason. Suddenly I was acutely aware of the space between us. I knew exactly where his hands rested on the table and how close his face was to mine.

“For the record,” he said, his voice quiet, almost intimate, “I also think you’re amazing.”

The world stopped. Say something, don’t just stare at him . . . “Thank you, Sir Reynald.”

He gave me a scorching smile and left the room.

All of the air went out of me, and I slumped into my chair. That was too much.

Entirely too much.

Writing with a reed pen wasn’t my favorite.

I had found all sorts of paper in my office: the rougher sheets; the smoother ones; thin, brownish everyday paper; the pale formal paper; even the thick fancy paper, embossed with an ornate border and accented by a thin magenta thread. I probably would’ve found a bullet journal if I looked long enough. All of that was great. The reed pens were something else entirely.

Rellasian reed pens were carved out of hollow reeds, which were then tipped with a metal nib and filled with ink. Lasa, the horrible shit smear that he was, had used them to produce a feathery, beautiful script. How he’d managed that escaped me. I kept scratching the paper and leaving holes everywhere.

Outside the last of the sunset had burned down to twilight, the sky like purple velvet. Fortunately, I had two oil lanterns—the larger floor lamp and the smaller one for my desk. They weren’t as good as electric lamps, but they weren’t bad either, and their soft yellow glow turned my study into a cozy den.

My handwriting was never great and had gotten worse. I typed at the speed of light and texted like a pro, but neither of those options were available here. Besides, I was taught to write fast and clearly. No frills, just legible letters. Writing in Rellasian was an exercise in pretty whorls. I still couldn’t get over the fact that I knew how to do it. I set the pen to paper, and Rellasian script came out. I’d tried the Shears cypher for laughs and that worked, too. If I ever got into the Shears’ HQ, all their secrets would be mine.

I had been at this for the better part of two hours. Now that we’d found the contraband iron, we had to decide what to do about it. I had a lot of things to write down.

A knock made me raise my head. Reynald stood in the doorway.

During the day, when he was doing things around the house, you forgot who he was and what he was capable of. But right now, half wrapped in the gloom, he looked frightening. His broad shoulders stretched his charcoal shirt. He seemed to have congealed from twilight, complete with an impassive expression on his face. Deadly swordsmen in my fantasy books loomed a lot, but I’d never seen anyone “loom” in real life. Reynald could give a master class in looming. If he wasn’t on our side, I’d be climbing out the window to get away.

“Come in,” I invited.

He stalked into the room and sat in the chair across the desk. The golden glow of the lanterns played over the hard jaw and the defined contours of his cheekbones. His gray-green eyes were cold and thoughtful, communicating just enough danger to catch your attention and hold it right there, on him. You could put him on a cover just like that, with a sword by his chair, and I would buy it so fast, my phone would catch fire.

I also think you’re amazing . . .

Perspective. He wasn’t trying to impress me. He was just sitting in a chair.

“What are we going to do about the iron?” he asked.

Right. Back to business.

“It’s a valuable secret. We could sell it to the Shears,” I told him. “The rebellion in the highlands is just south of Selva’s border. If it flares up, Sauven will demand that Everard put it down and then find some fault with how he does. The Sleepless Duke will lose soldiers, time, and money, and in the end, he’ll be accused of slaughtering helpless peasants or some other nonsense Sauven’s pack of counselors cooks up. Don’t get me wrong, Everard is ruthless, but he doesn’t go out of his way to be cruel unless he is trying to make a point. There is no point to be made in the hinterlands.”

“We are ornery people,” Reynald said. “If we don’t rebel every decade or so, we get bored.”

Spoken like a highland man. Long ago that area was settled by geriben, who raided Rellas in their blade boats. They were an independent and proud people, who kept the memories of their raiding glory alive, and they had no love for Rellasian bureaucracy. It didn’t take much to set them off. If they weren’t rebelling, they were communicating their intention to rebel.

“Everard needs this rebellion like a hole in his head. Since the Shears are allied with him, they’ve been turning the kingdom inside out trying to figure out the iron supplier. They will pay top rate.”

He thought about it, his fingers tapping the right armrest. “What’s binding the Shears to Everard?”

“The Shears are led by Solentine Dagarra.”

“Ah.”

Nothing more needed to be said.

This portion of the continent was split between Rellas in the West and the Crimson Empire in the East. The two countries shared a long border, interrupted by the Corios Sea. When they warred, their invasions happened either in the south, across a vast plain, or in the north, where three mountain ranges formed the Trihorn.

Solentine’s father, Margrave Izarn Demarr, held the southern edge of the Trihorn, while the Sleepless Duke shielded the northern side. The Demarrs and the Everards had to cooperate. They were both vassals of Rellas, but Izarn was much more vulnerable to Sauven’s whims and paranoia. More, he had to maintain a large standing army that was beyond his means. The Throne sent him an annual grant, and without that money the defense of the border would collapse. Izarn couldn’t afford to piss Sauven off.

To keep everyone safe, a secret agreement was reached between the Everards and the Demarrs.

“Publicly, the Demarrs are cool toward Selva and hold themselves as if the Sleepless Duke is the necessary evil they must endure to guard the border,” I said. “Privately, Solentine aids Everard in his ambitions using the Shears, at least for now. In return, if the Demarrs need help, Everard will come to their aid.”

“Good to know,” Reynald said.

While we’re on the subject . . . I handed him a small envelope.

“What is it?”

“Leverage against Solentine. If something happens to me, and you suspect the Shears are involved, you can use this to pressure him.”

Reynald studied the envelope. “Can I look at it?”

I nodded.

He opened the envelope, freed the single piece of paper inside, and read it. His eyebrows crept up.

Yeah. Solentine regretted a few things he had done in his life, but he was only ashamed of one. That one.

Reynald slid the paper back into the envelope.

“Solentine is very dangerous,” I said. “You’re the superior swordsman, but he has magic, and he won’t meet you head-on. He’s more likely to shoot you in the back and call it a day.”

“He wouldn’t be the first to try.” Reynald shrugged, then frowned. “You said Solentine supports Everard for now. Does he switch his allegiance?”

“Yes.”

“To Hreban?”

“No. Not at all. The Demarrs go at it alone.” And it would become their undoing.

“What causes the rift?”

Now that I’d met Solentine, I could picture it in my head, him standing in the middle of a terrible battle, splattered with blood and screaming. It would be a wordless, horrible howl, the sound of grief and rage so awful that it had to be vented or it would’ve torn him apart.

“Solentine is loyal to his family, while Everard is loyal only to Selva. The Sleepless Duke makes a choice that Solentine can’t live with.”

Reynald nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Makes sense. Only a fool expects loyalty from a man who salts fields and burns villages to the ground.”

Loyalty among the Great Families was a touchy subject. Some, like Bors, inspired it. Others, like Hreban, ruled through intimidation and money.

“There is also this.” I passed another folded piece of paper to him.

Reynald looked at it. “What language is this?”

“It’s the Shears’ cypher.”

“What does it say?”

“‘Don’t get into the carriage. Krasta has magic, and he’s fast with a knife.’”

“Is that a warning for Solentine?”

I nodded. “He’s getting desperate to find the source of iron. He took a shortcut and crossed a kir from the of Tangle.”

Kir meant a gang boss, and as criminals went, Krasta was one of the more vicious. Curiously, kir also meant “sergeant” and there was probably some deep meaning in that.

“What happens if he gets into the carriage?”

“He’ll win, but it will cost him the use of his left arm for about a month.”

“Everything I’ve heard about the Bastard of Dagarra says he can take care of himself,” Reynald said.

“Yes, but I don’t want to take a chance on Solentine being stabbed in the throat instead of his shoulder. I was thinking of asking Will to sneak the message into the Three Moons.”

“You feel something for Solentine,” he said.

“I know what drives him. He is a horrible bastard, but if you earn his loyalty, he will fight for you till his dying breath. I don’t want that breath to happen any time soon. He is useful.”

And that sounded a lot better than I spent too much time watching him struggle and now I’m emotionally invested despite my common sense.

“I’ll take care of it,” Reynald offered.

“Thank you. As you can see, Solentine is at his wits’ end. We can sell the secret of iron to the Shears. It would earn us some coin and let us keep the element of surprise. Hreban would continue his present course for a while, unaware that he was being targeted.”

“I sense a but coming.”

“We could also leak the existence of the iron to the Throne. We would lose the surprise, but we’d rattle Hreban’s cage. He’s been too comfortable for too long. Planning to kidnap Galiene’s daughter, killing a man and paying the city guards to watch the body . . . He thinks he is untouchable.”

It rankled me.

“I think I know why that is,” Reynald said. “Silveren.”

“You think Hreban and the Redeemers are already allied?”

He nodded.

“Why? When Hreban approaches Silveren after coming to power, Silveren seems to be conflicted about it. He hesitates.”

“Because Hreban is not a strategist, but Silveren is. I fought with Silveren once, years ago. The man is sly, subtle, and guarded. He doesn’t seek personal recognition, he avoids it. I watched him formulate the plan of assault and then nudge the commanders in the room toward it until they saw it, and when they claimed it, he congratulated them on their superb strategy. He observes, he waits, and he strikes only when he is sure. I doubt he’s changed in the last few years. I cannot see him throwing his lot in with Hreban on a whim.”

In the books, after Hreban claimed his top-dog spot, he made a grand show of traveling to the Redeemer Tower and asking Silveren in front of the entire order to be his sword for justice and protection of the kingdom. But that could’ve been staged. In fact, it probably was. Hreban wouldn’t have risked public humiliation of being turned down. He had to know in advance that Silveren would agree to aid him.

An existing alliance with Silveren would explain why Hreban was feeling bold. He had an entire knight order at his disposal. If things went badly, Silveren’s people had many ways of solving inconvenient problems.

Reynald leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “I understand Hreban. Gaining the support of a knight order would go a long way to helping him climb up. The Defenders and the Conquerors each have a Great Family behind them. Allying with them is more complicated, while the Redeemers have no backing. I know what he gets out of it. But what’s in it for Silveren?”

“The Redeemers rise in status above other holy orders.”

Reynald grimaced. “Status they would lose immediately if either Arvel or Bors decide they care. Too much risk for too little gain. No, it’s bigger than that.”

“So Silveren is using Hreban? To what end?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Estol Silveren wasn’t a POV character. He didn’t have a lot of page time either. He was the son of a baron from the southwest. His family was well-off. He came from a long line of knights, and like his father, he had distinguished himself on the battlefield. In war, he was clever and demonstrated flashes of brilliance.

When he was twenty-three, he was sent overseas on one of Rellas’s foreign campaigns. The detachment of the army under his command had taken a small town and burned it to the ground. It was unclear how the fire had started, but many people died, and Silveren was deeply affected by it. He resigned and joined the Order of Redeemers, seeking forgiveness and absolution. His rise through their ranks was meteoric. Within five years, the aging Preceptor passed him the reins. Silveren was thirty-one now, and so far, he’d stayed completely neutral, surfing the sea of political intrigue without getting his hair wet.

“I don’t know,” I told him. “Hreban holds him in high regard, which for him means refraining from openly sneering in Silveren’s direction. When chaos starts, publicly the Redeemers act mostly as one would expect. Once Hreban’s private troops are done rampaging, they put out the fires, keep the peace, and obey Sauven’s commands.”

“And privately?”

“They do things that would turn your hair white. Especially Silveren. You’re right, he must have some kind of plan, but what is it?”

“I don’t know, and that troubles me.”

It troubled me as well.

There was something I was missing here, which wasn’t surprising. Latour was infamous for inserting seemingly random scenes into the narrative. They would sit there without any obvious reason for their existence, until three hundred pages later some shocking revelation would make them crucial and relevant. One of them could’ve related to Silveren and without the final book, I would never make the connection, no matter how many times I’d reread.

The lack of the third book was so fucking frustrating.

“What do you want to do?” Reynald asked.

“I want to rattle Hreban’s cage.”

“You want to leak word of the iron.” His eyes lit up.

“Yes.”

“So do I.”

“Rattled people make mistakes. I want to see what he does.”

“Then we’re in accord. I want to stab Hreban and see if Silveren moves to counter.”

We shared a look across the table.

“It is far riskier than selling it to the Shears,” I said.

“I’m willing to take the risk,” he said. “Let me handle this as well.”

“What will you do?”

“I have a friend who works for the Justice Chamber.”

I waited but he didn’t volunteer anything else. Whoever this friend was, the books didn’t mention them.

“It’s my turn to demonstrate trust then.”

His grin had a slightly evil edge to it. “Don’t worry, Maggie. Your trust is not misplaced.”

Outside my window the sun was setting. Somewhere in the distance bells rang eight times. The Magnars had been gone for two hours. I heard footsteps and looked up. Clover appeared in the open doorway and knocked on the doorframe. “Are you sure you don’t want any dinner?”

Shana had cooked the whole dinner before she left, complete with dessert, but I couldn’t stomach a single bite. “I’m not hungry.”

“Snacks? You didn’t even have any sambocades.”

“I’m good. But thank you for thinking of me.”

She frowned and left.

Last night, after Reynald and I talked, he had gone out. In the morning he informed me that the errand was taken care of. Reynald’s friend moved fast. I’d sent Kaiden out to the wharf just after noon for general reconnaissance, and according to him, men in armor in black and purple tabards had swarmed the Yolenta warehouse. He couldn’t even get close. Hreban had people in the wharf. By now he would know that the warehouse had been raided by the Justice Chamber, and he would deduce why.

We’d made enemies of two Great Families today and if they ever found out about it, there would be hell to pay. And yet it didn’t bother me. All of my anxiety was going toward the Magnars. Filderon was overjoyed that Gort had changed his mind and had invited the Magnar family to join him for dinner at the house he leased. They had put on their mercenary garb. I wished them to “Survive, get paid,” which was an old mercenary saying for good luck. Lute and Will laughed at me and then they left.

I’d set this in motion. I had known exactly how it would go if I told the Magnars about Falcon Point. It was too late for regrets. I’d sent four people to either kill someone or get killed, and I desperately hoped it wouldn’t be the latter.

I had to get out of the office. Sitting here was just making me stir-crazy. I took my desk lantern and went outside.

Instead of a typical roof, our square of a house was topped by a battlement like a castle, a flat stone walkway bordered by a waist-high parapet on both the outer and inner sides. The floor was slightly slanted, allowing the rain to run toward the drain holes in the outer rampart.

In the northeastern corner of the battlement, someone had set up a table, two benches, and a triangle of canvas that you could stretch over the table and attach via a hook to a ring embedded in the rampart. To get to the battlement, you had to take a flight of stairs from the courtyard, which was exactly what I did.

I sat at the table. The evening sky glowed a beautiful lavender washed with gold. Beyond the wall, the Virka flowed, its waters olive-green from the silt. The dying sunlight reflected from the calm surface, and in places the river shone like a jewel.

Across the water, an attendant lit colorful glass lanterns on the roof terrace of the Taryz Teahouse. The evening breeze stirred the bright green triangles of canvas that shielded the patrons from the sun and rain.

A flock of small draga birds flew above the river. Bright white, they looked like a cross between a heron and a hawk that somehow had stolen a white pheasant’s tail and dip-dyed it in sunset clouds. Beneath the birds, a boat loaded with barrels floated by, guided by a single helmsman with a large oar at the rear of it.

The world looked like a magical painting.

“Enjoying the scenery?” Reynald said.

I almost jumped. Damn it.

He smiled at me and set a platter with a teapot, two cups, and a dish of triangular pastries on the table.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to check on you.” He sat in the other chair and nudged the platter toward me. “And I brought Shana’s sambocades.”

The sambocade was a medieval elderflower cheesecake. I’d never tasted one, but a dedicated group of fans had once made all the recipes from the books, and I remembered the pictures. Sambocade looked kind of like a pumpkin pie with some berries on top. This looked more like a pocket of dough.

I took one of the triangles and bit into it.

Oh. Oh wow.

The pastry was buttery and flaky, and the filling was light and creamy, with a subtle berry taste that reminded me of a ripe, sweet blackberry without any seeds. It was light, fluffy, sweet, and it melted on my tongue. I should have never tried one of these because now I was ruined for life.

Reynald poured the tea. I drank from my cup. It was a different flavor this time, a light aromatic brew that tasted faintly of honey, jasmine, and something fruity with a hint of whipped cream.

“What is this?”

“Night blossom. It’s a tea rich people drink before bed.”

“Did this come out of Clover’s ‘for the guests’ stash?”

The need for a superior tea option to be served to future clients had been explained to me a couple of days ago at great length.

“Possibly. Better drink it before she catches us. I tried to find wine, but we have none. I would’ve thought we had inherited some from Derog.”

“He was adamantly against spirits or wine of any sort. If one of his employees showed up smelling of ale, he would kick them out.”

“Ah,” Reynald said. “Explains things.”

I sipped from my cup. The tea was delicious.

He watched me. “It will be fine, Maggie.”

“Filderon is a shrewd, suspicious bastard,” I said. “He will be protected.”

“The Magnars knew that going in.”

I looked at my tea. There was a tiny white flower floating in it.

“You’re a worrier,” Reynald said. It didn’t sound like criticism, just a statement of fact, but I felt the need to defend myself anyway.

“If it wasn’t for me, they wouldn’t be doing what they’re doing right now.”

“If it wasn’t for you, Gort would be marching to his death in a few days.”

I ran my finger along the rim of my teacup. “He wouldn’t. You convinced him to abandon Filderon and come work for us.”

“Which would never have happened if you hadn’t sat at my table at Taryz Teahouse.”

Technically true.

“Breaking Ulmar and Indora’s budding alliance will leave Hreban without his source of arms,” Reynald said. “But the mercenaries didn’t have to be a part of it. You could’ve kept quiet, and nobody would’ve ever known. Instead, you stuck your neck out for people you’ve never met.”

He was right. I could think of half a dozen ways to quietly shatter that link, the most obvious of which would be writing a letter to Dreantia about what her niece was doing. Now Dreantia would find out when Filderon’s mercenaries failed to show up, leaving her inspector to discover the contraband.

I sighed. “Yes, preventing the slaughter at Falcon Point didn’t have to be a part of it. It might’ve been better if it wasn’t. There is a risk that the Magnars will be found out, and that may draw attention to us. Indora will survive this mess—she’s too shrewd—and she will be looking to get even. Especially since we had the warehouse raided. Right now, she doesn’t know we exist. After Filderon dies, who knows?”

He gave me a long glance. “Why did you do it?”

“My father was a soldier. When I was a child, he would leave to fight in wars. I was young, so I didn’t always understand where he went, but I remember being scared that he might not come back. His death would’ve crushed my little world.”

Trying to put childhood anxiety into words was surprisingly hard.

“I’m not sure if we can stop Hreban and prevent the civil war. I will do everything I can, I just don’t know if it will be enough. But I can save these people today. I’m still worried about the consequences, but was it even a choice?”

“No,” he said. “Not for you. Although some people would’ve let them die and never lost sleep over it.”

“I’ve barely gotten any sleep in the last few days. I can’t afford to lose any more.”

Reynald studied me for a long moment. “Let me tell you a secret that everyone knows. Mercenary brokers like to talk about rules and traditions, but they are soldiers for hire. They serve the coin and pray to the Hireling. The very Aspect they worship sells his services for money. If they were truly fond of rules and traditions, they would choose a lord or a city and swear their allegiance. Instead, they work for the highest bidder.”

True.

“When I convinced Gort to aid us, he told Filderon he wasn’t interested. His name isn’t on any roster. Nobody will suspect the Magnars, and even if they do, nothing will come of it. No matter how connected Filderon is, no one will risk their neck to avenge him. He will be dead. Do you know what a dead mercenary is worth?”

“Two boots and a sword?” Gort said this once in the books.

“Their boots are garbage, but yes. You can take his sword so you will have a spare. That’s it. And if someone chooses to make an issue of Filderon’s death, I will take care of it.”

He said it in a very final way. Don’t worry about it, I will handle it. And he would. Reynald didn’t make empty promises.

“You have me, Maggie,” he said. “I don’t know the future, but I know the present, and I’ve decided to walk this path with you. As long as you will have me by your side, I won’t allow anyone to harm you.”

The most precious commodity in Kair Toren—the trust of Reynald Karis. I finally had it. Not for now, not conditionally, but for however long it took.

I’d thought I had to deliver the contraband iron to earn it. Instead, it was saving the eighty mercenaries that did it. The deadliest blademaster in the city would lend me his sword. Now I just had to decide what to do with it.

I had worked so hard for this moment. We’d scored a hit against Hreban, we stopped the rebellion and the needless loss of life, and we’d prevented the death of the mercenaries. The Magnars should be able to handle Filderon. The next pivotal event in the storyline wouldn’t happen for months. Plenty of time to prepare.

I should’ve been relieved. Instead the unease wrapped around me like a heavy, smothering blanket.

Reynald squinted at the roof terrace of the Taryz. “The Conquerors are out in force.”

On the terrace several people in armor and red tabards sat around a table. One of them waved their arms. The sound didn’t reach this far, but it looked like they were laughing.

“I had no idea they drank tea,” Reynald said.

“Well, blood of their enemies does get old after a while.”

He cracked a razor-sharp smile. He was really handsome today, all edge and green eyes.

On the terrace, one of the Conquerors jumped up. The others pulled her down back into her seat.

“Have you seen the Borses’ Rageglow?” I asked.

“I have.”

“And Arvel’s Enduring Flame?”

“Yes. I’ve seen the magic of all four warrior families.”

“What is it like?”

He sighed. “The Enduring Flame shines like a curtain of golden light. It’s showy. When Arvel stands in the middle of it, he looks like a saint, one of the Aspects’ reincarnations. His skin and hair glow, and his eyes light up. When the flame is burning, he is untouchable. He can expand it to cover himself and his allies. If you’re in his inner circle, you are invulnerable. The competition to be one of Arvel’s chosen is cutthroat.”

That’s why they called Arvel the Golden Knight. It had to be beautiful.

“Everard’s Fatefire is terrifying,” Reynald continued. “It coats his sword, blazing with green and black. When he strikes, the Fatefire flies off the blade and burns everything in its path. It can cut through a man in armor and the horse he’s on from a hundred paces away. Every strike leaves a line of green flames in its wake, and he can keep it blazing for a single breath or a quarter of an hour. When Everard is on the field, the air reeks of smoldering flesh and the battlefield burns with scars of fire. The screams of the dying assail your ears. The black smoke that rises from the bodies stings your eyes and scrapes your throat.”

I mentally scratched Fatefire off my “To See While in Rellas” list.

“The Rageglow is bright red, like arterial blood,” Reynald said. “It sheathes Wynand Bors and his Conquerors in glowing armor. They grow stronger, faster, and impervious to pain. Their weapons cut through solid steel like butter. The magic severs their grip on reality, and as they lose themselves, they scream. It’s a sight you never forget. If only the Rageglow gave Wynand some wisdom, he would be sitting on the throne in the Eagle Roost.”

On second thought, I didn’t need to see the Rageglow either.

“The Exultant Call of the Savarics has no color,” Reynald said. “You don’t see it, you feel it. It reaches into you and envelops your heart. You feel stronger, faster, more powerful, and you know you’re not alone. Your friends are standing with you, and no enemy is great enough to bring you down. Your courage grows like a tree within you, unbreakable, and you run into battle. And even as you die, you still feel victorious.”

Wow.

“It’s that power that has kept the Savarics on their throne for three centuries,” Reynald said. “One cannot discount it.”

He fell silent. I was sitting on a wall in a magical city, and a hot, deadly swordsman had brought me tea and pastries and was entertaining me with his war stories. Dreams fanfics were made of.

So why couldn’t I relax?

I needed the Magnars to come back in one piece. That would take a huge load of anxiety off my shoulders. I checked the streets. Still empty.

“Do you know what they call Wynand Bors behind his back?” Reynald asked.

I blinked at him. “So it’s true?”

He smiled.

“They really call him the ‘Lord of Assholes’?”

“Never to his face,” he said.

I laughed softly. “What did he do to earn that title?”

The books never explained it.

“It was his uncle, actually. He was the Lord Commander of the Conquerors before Wynand.”

“One-Armed Verold?”

“That’s the one. Losing the arm in battle didn’t slow him down any. About twenty years ago, each of the three knight orders had ceremonial guard duty for one day and night during the Midsummer Aspects festival. On the first day, the Defenders stood guard, and the Conquerors behaved themselves. On the second day, the Conquerors were on duty, so again everything went well. On the third day it was the Redeemers’ turn to guard, and the Conquerors went wild. They got drunk, they chased the festival cows, they picked fights . . . One of them climbed the statue of the Nurturer and attempted to conquer her.”

I laughed.

Reynald’s eyes sparked with humor. “Neither the king nor the clerics found it funny. So Wynand’s uncle is on one knee in the throne room, while Sauven is raging and throwing things at him from his desk. This went on for some time. Finally, Sauven shakes the long scroll with all the charges on it at Wynand’s uncle and yells, ‘These are not the actions of knights! These are the actions of deranged assholes! And what are you? Who do you think you are?!’ And Wynand’s uncle says, ‘I am the Lord of Assholes, Your Majesty.’”

I laughed so hard I snorted.

“So Wynand inherited the title,” Reynald said.

“But is he worthy of it?”

“Oh yes. Many times over.” Reynald turned his head. “There they are.”

I looked in the direction of his gaze and saw four people coming down the street, through the twilight. Three were tall and one short.

“You can stop worrying now, Maggie,”Reynald said, his eyes warm. “The future won’t get the better of us. I promise you, we will win this war.”